Bad Faith
by hrhrionastar
Summary: For the 100 Drabbles/Oneshots Challenge. Malfoycentric.
1. Frog Prince

**Frog Prince**

"—And the princess kissed the frog, and poof! He turned into a handsome prince. And the princess and the frog-prince got married and lived happily ever after."

"Why'd the princess marry the frog-prince?" Draco Malfoy asks. "He was all dirty and gross, and she's a _princess_."

"Because she saw who he really was, and it didn't matter what he looked like," the strange little blonde girl explains.

"Oh," Draco says doubtfully.

"Like all great love stories, The Frog Prince is about inner beauty and connection. It doesn't matter what people look like, because you can always tell who they really are underneath," the blonde girl says matter-of-factly.

"Who am I, then?" Draco asks, making a face at her. He's trying to sneer just like his father, but somehow the effect is more humorous than intimidating. The girl giggles.

"You're the princess, before she gets humbled," she says.

"Am not!" Draco protests, a little too loudly. Mr. Lucius Malfoy turns around, one eyebrow raised, from where he's been ordering potions ingredients.

"Is there a problem, Draco?" he asks harshly.

Draco may be only five, but he knows _that _tone never bodes well. "No, Father."

"Good-day, Malfoy," a tall man with salt and pepper hair nods politely to Lucius and walks over to collect his daughter. "Come along, Luna."

Lucius nods to the man, and concludes his own business.

"Father?" Draco asks later. "Is it true that what's on the inside is what counts, not the outside?"

"Why?" Lucius asks, frowning. "Who've you been talking to? Oh, of course," he answers his own question. "Lovegood's little girl. Certifiable, both of them."

"But is it true?" Draco insists.

Lucius sighs, sensing a small child meltdown and not relishing the stares this will earn him from pathetically innocent passersby. He picks Draco up, carries him to a bench, and sets him down, kneeling in front of his son.

"What counts," he says slowly, staring into the gray eyes so like his own. "Is the blood running through your veins. Malfoy blood. You are my son. That's what counts. Understand?"

"Yes, Father," Draco says automatically. "Blood's in my insides, right? Outside, blood is bad!"

"Yes, Draco," sighs Lucius. "But _your_ blood is good. You are my little prince."

Draco smiles. He likes being a prince—so long as he doesn't have to turn into a _frog _to get the girl. Then he'd have to croak and eat bugs, and most of all, he wouldn't have any magic.

It must be terrible not to have any magic. Draco shudders, and clings tight to his father's hand.

He feels safe. Draco Malfoy is exactly where he belongs.


	2. Applesauce

NOTE: These will not be chronological. Nor are they all about Draco.

* * *

**Applesauce**

Astoria stirs the huge bowl of applesauce by hand, each stroke a comfort to her frazzled nerves. She tries not to think of her mother-in-law, upstairs, all her sister Daphne's friends, and their parents. Glasses clink, there's the quiet murmur of voices, and Astoria wonders what they're discussing. The weather, the economy? Never what really matters, of course.

Daphne still hasn't spoken to her, nothing since she eloped with Draco save that wretched Howler—and Astoria can't face Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode, smirking at each other behind her back, or old Mr. Davis laughing with her parents-in-law about the trouble with daughters, not that they have any—Draco's an only child.

Her pace quickens, and the applesauce churns like butter. Her arms will hurt tomorrow, but Astoria doesn't care.

"Hey," Draco says from the doorway. Quick as thought, he wraps one arm round her waist and dips a finger into the applesauce. "Ow!"

"It's a little hot," she warns him too late. There's a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"It's not fair that I should be the only sufferer," Draco retorts, and swipes a second taste. He runs his finger over her lips, and she licks the applesauce off, cooking completely forgotten.

"Mmm," she murmurs, eyes half-closed. He's watching her in fascination. Astoria opens her eyes properly and says matter-of-factly, "Needs more sugar, don't you think?"

Draco laughs. "You're pretty sweet yourself," he says, but he Summons the sugar for her.

Draco sits on the table, one leg swinging, while Astoria pours. "Are you…do you want to stay here 'til the party's over?" he asks her uncertainly.

"I don't know, Drake," Astoria replies, feeling resigned. "I suppose going up's my duty, as _Mrs. Draco Malfoy_."

"Bitter," comments Draco. "At least I know you didn't marry me for my venerable name."

"You knew_ that_ already," Astoria says sternly, unable to keep a small smile out of her voice.

"It's not a big deal." Draco tries to brush it off. "Really, Tori, if you don't feel comfortable—I mean, hey, I don't need any more fancy parties—I already got the best thing possible from one of these dreary affairs."

Astoria smiles shyly, knowing he's referencing the night they met—at her engagement party to another man.

"I'm sure your parents disapprove of me just sitting around down here, though," she says.

"Sitting around?" Draco's on his feet and kissing her neck in an instant. "You're doing more than they ever did. I don't think my mother cooked a single meal herself when I was growing up."

"It _is _hard to imagine," Astoria concedes, trying to picture Narcissa Malfoy in an apron, covered in flour, rice or applesauce—and failing.

"You're amazing, no two ways about it, Tori," Draco assures her.

"You're great, you know that?" Astoria grins, leans back and kisses her husband. "Now run along, I've got applesauce to finish."

Draco gives her an ironic bow, and Astoria blows him a kiss, feeling inexplicably cheered.


	3. Evil Books

**Evil Books**

"I've had it with you, Scorpius Malfoy!"

I stared at Al Potter, feeling understandably confused. Yes, we've never exactly gotten along, but he's usually quite polite, and his parents have been nothing but kind to me.

"First you waltz in here and manipulate Rose into becoming a Ravenclaw when everyone in the entire family has been in Gryffindor for generations—except Lily, and Hugo, I suppose, but that's neither here nor there—and then you proceed to torment her with pointless competitions over grade point average, and you actually beat her in several subjects, making her insufferable all last summer when she got her O.W.L. scores, and then, to top it off, I find the two of you snogging! _Snogging my cousin! _How dare you corrupt her? You evil fiend! Uncle Ron is totally right, you_ so_ can't trust a Malfoy!"

"Me?" I demanded angrily. "_I'm_ corrupting _her_? Albus Severus Potter, have you ever met Rose Weasley? I'm not the one who owns a copy of _Magick Moste Evile_, complete with personal annotations!"

"WHAT?" he shouted, flabbergasted.

"Ask her," I suggested. His extreme reaction was rather gratifying, on the whole.

"You bastard!" he said, and walked off. Quite a relief, in my humble opinion. If I'd been subjected to further cousinly diatribes, I might've had to hex him.

"And I certainly didn't make Rose a Ravenclaw," I grumbled. "She's only the most brilliant witch in the history of _ever_."

As expected, Rose came to find me in the Slytherin common room after Al got his melodramatic yelling in. Sure, she's a 'Claw, but it's always been ludicrously easy for her to guess other people's passwords. After that time with the one couch, five gallons of bubotuber puss, and several snakes, people pretty much let her do what she likes, too.

"Al just accused me of owning _Magick Moste Evile_," she informed me, with a knowing glance.

"Don't you?" I shrugged.

"Well—yes," she admitted, straightforward as always.

"Not that I'm complaining, mind," I said, "But how'd you get a hold of that book, anyway? Isn't it so evil it's out of print?"

"Yeah," she admitted, sitting down next to me on the couch. Not the bubotuber puss one—only first-years sit there anymore. Bloody hilarious. "But the Room of Requirement used to have this one room where people hid all their dearest forbidden treasures—it got destroyed by some out-of-control Fiendfyre during the war, but _Magick Moste Evile _had a powerful counterspell, and it survived intact. I was experimenting one time with the Room, and I found it."

"And you took it," I prompted.

"Pretty much," she agreed. "If you ask me, it's _way _overwritten."

"And the Dark Lord thought_ he_ was bad…I kind of love you," I said fervently.

Rose just laughed, and I'm afraid we got rather…_distracted_ at that point, so our academic discussion of evil had to wait for another time.


	4. Mudblood Hufflepuff

**Mudblood Hufflepuff**

"Ooh, look, it's Narcissa Black—did you hear about her sister?"

"No, what?"

"Eloped with that Mudblood Hufflepuff, the one who got passed over for Head Boy by Lucius Malfoy…"

"No way. _Bellatrix?"_

"Not her, the other one."

"Wow. Slut…"

"Disgrace, that's what I call it…"

They're everywhere. The whispers…

I spent my entire summer waiting for Andromeda to come back, tell me she'd made a horrible mistake, and grovel for our parents until they relented (difficult, yes, but not impossible—I could've brought Great Aunts Melania and Cassiopeia round, and Father would've had a hard time resisting them. After all, Great-Uncle Arcturus is head of the family).

But no—absolutely no word, let alone the reconciliation I've been waiting for. The whispers dog my footsteps, and some people don't even bother lowering their voices. Why should they? Andromeda's dragged our noble name through the mud (and no, it's hardly the first time, since Great-Uncle Marius was a squib, and Great-Aunt Cedrella married a Weasley, of all things).

At least at school I don't have to listen to Bella go on and on about how Andromeda's no sister of ours, and stop moping around, Cissy, anyone would think you_ missed_ that blood traitor.

I honestly don't know how I'm going to get through my seventh year. Lucius graduated, so I can't even complain to him, and everyone else will just be intolerable.

Too bad all the little Gryffindors are sighing over how romantic it is.

And maybe it would be a teeny bit romantic, if he weren't a Hufflepuff. Hufflepuff, I ask you! Talk about adding insult to injury.

Furious, I make my way up to the owlery, the very first night, and write an impassioned letter to Lucius.

I just hope he doesn't think I'm overreacting. And that his parents don't see it, _that _would be embarrassing…

If only I could just get over it. If I was like B, I could probably care less. But she loves that Mudblood Hufflepuff more than me and the family, and that I will never understand.

He's a _Hufflepuff._ How could Andromeda sink that low?


	5. The Careful Crab

Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble; also, it's the first part of a four-part mini-story about Lucius, Narcissa, and a certain prophecy. All will be revealed in Chapter 8.

* * *

**The Careful Crab**

_Like the animal chosen to represent them, those born under the sign of the Crab are hard on the outside, and soft on the inside._

Narcissa hums while she arranges flowers in the main hall of Malfoy Manor. She's happy, because she's finally achieved the dream for which she and her new husband have been scheming for the past six years, when she was fifteen, at least. Her wedding to Lucius Malfoy was a large, rather solemn affair (she blames the political climate for that) where everyone was exquisitely dressed.

She and Lucius have just got back from a lovely honeymoon in the south of France, in fact.

In short, all is right in the world (barring such trifling matters as her disgraced sister whom she hasn't seen in four years, her other sister's passion for flouting convention and hunting down 'scum, filth, and Muggles'—not that B really thinks there's so much difference between the three…or the war currently brewing under everyone's noses, complete with Ministerial incompetence—so what else is new?).

Narcissa's honestly not sure what would make her happier right now, and in fact she can only think of one thing: the presence of her beloved.

Like magic, he appears.

Unfortunately, he's not alone. He's trailed by that forbidding icon of all things pureblood, perfectionist, wicked, and noseless, the Dark Lord. There are also a few miscellaneous minions, and Narcissa's big sister B.

It's only the second time Narcissa has set eyes on the Dark Lord, so she is somewhat flustered. She sweeps him a truly magnificent curtsy, and bends to kiss his robes (a matter of form, Lucius has assured her).

"This is a spacious hall," the Dark Lord says, over her head to Lucius. He completely ignores Narcissa. She's not really sorry.

"Thank you, my lord," Lucius says, sounding slightly confused.

"Show me the other rooms on this floor," the Dark Lord commands.

Narcissa hangs back, not sure whether she's meant to come along. "Come _on,_ Cissy," B says, rolling her eyes and pinching Narcissa's arm in order to drag her along.

"Yes…" the Dark Lord murmurs approvingly at the dining hall. "This will do very well…"

"For what, my lord?" Lucius asks, finally succumbing to curiosity. Narcissa feels a strange tightness in her chest—this can lead to nothing good.

"For my headquarters," the Dark Lord says calmly, as though he can't believe Lucius is daring to question him.

Narcissa shivers.

_Those born under the sign of the Crab are also known for their devotion to their home. _

"My Lord, I hardly think—" Lucius starts, and Narcissa wants to cry, because his haughty tone is just that adorable, but she highly doubts it'll do much good.

"Are you refusing to share your home with me, Lucius?" the Dark Lord says dangerously. "I thought you would be pleased I'm granting you such an…honor."

"It's not that, my Lord," Lucius tries to explain.

Narcissa, knowing she has only moments before curses start flying, yanks a handful of B's hair and pulls her older sister a few steps from the miscellaneous minions.

"B," she whispers quickly, "Don't you think this is just horribly unfair? I mean, after all you've done for the Dark Lord, and he's going to hold soirees in _our_ ballroom? You're _only_ his most loyal servant! Shouldn't_ you_ be getting this…privilege?" To her credit, Narcissa's voice doesn't even shake on the last word.

"You know, Cissy," B says thoughtfully, "that's actually a really good point. What would I do without you looking out for me, sister dear?" The sarcasm is only really noticeable for the last two words, and Narcissa generously lets it go.

Crossing her fingers, she watches B, hair frizzy as always and eyes proud, make her way between Lucius and the Dark Lord. She even dares to put a hand on the Dark Lord's sleeve.

He glares at her. "What is the meaning of this, Bella?"

"My Lord!" B cries, making his title sound like the dearest of caresses. "I beg you! Consider my humble abode for your headquarters! Lestrange Manor is just as spacious as this one, and we've got good stone walls—harder to burn during Revels, right?" She sounds so eager, practically bouncing up and down in her attempt to gain his approval.

"My sister-in-law is far more deserving of the honor than I, my Lord," Lucius adds fulsomely. Narcissa catches his eye, and he seems to read her silent message, because he moves away from the center of the action, toward his young bride.

They take refuge behind some lovely pink carnations.

"Thank Salazar Bellatrix is such a fanatic," Lucius whispers. "Can you imagine_ him_, here? My grandfather would turn in his grave."

"I'm so glad," Narcissa agrees. "Of course you know I'll always support you, but I just—that is—"

"Oh, very _well_," they hear the Dark Lord say exasperatedly. The corners of Narcissa's mouth twitch. B can be very convincing.

"We must celebrate!" B says triumphantly, and Narcissa snaps her fingers for a house-elf to bring them some champagne.

Later, when she's reading her horoscope in bed, and smiling ruefully because she's seriously not sure she can take any more 'mysterious strangers,' Lucius sits beside her and runs a hand through her hair affectionately.

She smiles.

"'Cancer: You will meet a dark and mysterious stranger whose talent for brooding nearly matches your own,'" he reads. "Who writes these things?"

Narcissa giggles. "_You_'re going to receive an interesting proposition from someone important to you," she tells him.

"I hope it's you," Lucius murmurs. "My beautiful, _crab-_y wife. I'd better be careful…"

"Hey!" Narcissa protests, slapping his arm playfully. "Am I crabby? And what about you, Mr. Gemini?"

"I'm the twins," Lucius explains.

Narcissa rolls her eyes at the implication that he thought she couldn't translate the word, and says slyly. "Mmm…twins, eh? Two of you? I bet I could get used to that…"

The magazine containing various horoscopes slides to the floor and isn't perused again for some time.


	6. Itchy Nose

Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble; also, it's the second part of a four-part mini-story about Lucius, Narcissa, and a certain prophecy. All will be revealed in Chapter 8.

* * *

**Itchy Nose**

It wasn't, Narcissa assured herself, that she'd had too much wine. It was her wedding reception—her actual wedding! Anyone would be giddy. Sure, she'd probably drank enough that it was a very good thing she and Lucius were traveling for their honeymoon in a flying carriage instead of trying to Apparate—not that she'd Splinch herself. Hadn't done that in years.

Or ever, now that she thought about it. She'd been so grossed out when Tommy Fleming had disappeared and reappeared a few feet away with his left leg and right arm still where he'd previously been, that she had made very, very certain that she knew what she was doing—could feel the whole shape of the spell, where she was going to end up, what each of her molecules were going to be doing between here and there—before she'd so much as tried it. The others had laughed at her, but she'd never Splinched, had never even landed somewhere she didn't mean to. So that was all right.

"Oh, honey, there you are," her father said, stretching out an arm and scooping her toward his conversation with a fidgeting Lucius and a tall, dark and scary stranger. "This is my daughter, er…" Narcissa rolled her eyes. Her father hadn't ever been able to remember her name.

"Mrs. Malfoy," the stranger said, bowing over her hand.

Narcissa sent Lucius an inquiring look and curtsied slightly to the stranger.

When he stood straight again, his hood fell back slightly, and Narcissa's eyes widened. The stranger _had no nose._

How was that even possible? Narcissa was far too polite to actually comment, but she was sure her eyes were giving her away.

"Congratulations," the noseless wizard said coldly.

"Thank you, thank you, my Lord," her father said obsequiously, rubbing his hands together.

Odd. There were no lords in Wizarding society. Not that they lacked an aristocracy—the Blacks _alone_—but titles were usually considered rather plebeian. Muggle, even.

Narcissa felt there was something going on that she didn't understand. And, as her father launched into a monologue in which 'damn Muggles,' 'my eldest girl, Bellatrix,' and 'Ministry idiots' figured rather prominently, Narcissa started feeling an uncomfortable sensation.

Her nose itched.

She wanted to reach up and scratch it, but how could she? That would draw attention to Lord Whoever's lack of…well, a nose. Narcissa moved unobtrusively toward Lucius, and he placed a hand under her elbow.

"Do excuse us for a moment," Lucius said smoothly. "Like anything from the buffet?"

"Some chicken, bit of that green vegetable, what-you-call-it, champagne, and maybe a little pudding," Cygnus Black rattled off.

Lord Whoever looked vaguely nauseated. "Tea," he said firmly. "Just—tea."

"Absolutely, my Lord," said Lucius, and swept Narcissa away toward the food.

Absently, Narcissa began filling a plate for her father. "Lucius," she said slowly. "Who was that?"

"That's the Dark Lord," Lucius told her, looking a little surprised she didn't already know.

"Oh," said Narcissa, who had heard of _him_. Honestly, Reggie never talked about anything else. "So," she said after a moment, "what's wrong with his nose?"

"I…what nose?" Lucius asked.

"That's what I mean," Narcissa hissed under her breath.

"Right. Well…Acid-Pop accident?" Lucius suggested half-heartedly.

"Do you think…" Narcissa whispered. "I mean, no nose means no sense of smell, which means a sense of taste reduced by seventy percent! So, it's really like he can't eat properly at all, isn't it? No wonder all he wants is tea!"

"I don't know how he'd tell the difference," muttered Lucius. Then his eyes met Narcissa's, and both knew they were having exactly the same thought.

Carefully, Narcissa reached for some powdered cloves. Lucius pinched a bit of lovage over the Dark Lord's cup of tea, and dug around in his pockets for the mallowsweet Rabastan Lestrange had given him several weeks ago. Luckily, it would still be fresh enough to set a normal person's taste buds humming. Not to mention the rest of them (mallowsweet was the preferred mind-altering substance of choice, these days; other than Imperius, which wasn't exactly a _choice_…).

By the time Lucius and Narcissa got back to her father and the Dark Lord (the latter was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and slightly murderous), the tea was so full of mind-altering, taste-bud-searing, olfactorily-prominent substances that Cygnus actually frowned a bit and sniffed his chicken before taking a large bite.

"Your tea, Lord," Narcissa said with a curtsy. She kept her eyes down and concentrated on being the demurest pureblood lady ever (though this was somewhat difficult, since she was acutely aware of Lucius's hand on the small of her back and the fact that they had yet to depart on their honeymoon). She held out the cup, and fought an insane desire to giggle.

The Dark Lord didn't say thank you. Narcissa wasn't surprised; aristocrats so rarely did. The more fool they.

However, he took the cup, rather gingerly, and sipped.

Narcissa waited. She felt Lucius, behind her, still as a coiled snake, ready to strike in an instant. This might be very bad, after all…

"Mmm," the Dark Lord said. He was neither throwing the cup at the wall in a fit of rage nor murdering them, so Narcissa felt a small flicker of triumph. She leaned her head back against Lucius's shoulder, expression demure as ever but with smiling eyes.

Lucius's hand moved down a bit, and coiled itself around her hip. Narcissa's breath caught.

"Some party," said Narcissa's sister loudly. She threw an arm around Narcissa's shoulder, and stole a bite of chicken off Cygnus's plate. He didn't even frown at her.

So unfair, Narcissa thought. B, B, B, always the favorite.

"Bellatrix," Lucius said coolly. "We were just leaving."

"The night's young," protested B. "My Lord will be disappointed if you don't stay!"

"It's fine," said the Dark Lord, directly addressing B and ignoring everyone else. "I should get going." Absently, he handed the cup of tea-and-other-things to B and Disapparated.

B took a sip reverently, and then made a face. "What the hell is in this?" she scowled.

"Nothing unusual," Lucius said suavely, and extricated Narcissa, with some care, from her sister's grip.

Narcissa, taking her cue, kissed B on either cheek, and said, "Thanks so much for being here for me today, B. You're the best sister a girl could have."

B was clearly pleased, but equally clearly, was unwilling to show it. "Have _fun,"_ she said archly, instead.

Narcissa ignored her father (why not? He only ever loved B anyway) and curled her body toward her new husband. He put his arm around her waist and whisked her toward the flying carriage.

"Lady, your transportation awaits," he said, and she smiled serenely, and kissed him.

Lucius and Narcissa eventually made it to their honeymoon, but neither mentioned the Incident of the Wedding Reception again. Narcissa wasn't anxious to get on the Dark Lord's bad side—she couldn't believe she'd been so careless, and blamed the alcohol—but she did have a hard time ridding her speech of the expression, "Wake up and smell the cloves."

And whenever she pictured that strange would-be aristocrat, she always felt a slight tingling in her nose.


	7. Green for Something New

Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble; also, it's the third part of a four-part mini-story about Lucius, Narcissa, and a certain prophecy. All will be revealed in Chapter 8.

* * *

**Green for Something New**

It's Narcissa's and my wedding anniversary, and everything in sight is draped in green for the occasion. Green and white. White's always been my wife's favorite color.

She says it's pure, like us.

Still, green is our House color, and the color of the Dark Lord's favorite Unforgiveable Curse, which means leaving it out would be tantamount to a rebellion.

Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing, serving someone who tells me what color hangings I should have in _my_ house.

But, tonight, I'm going to forget all that. It's not important anyway. My sister-in-law is out on a mission, as always, which only means she'll probably be too busy to show up unannounced for dinner—the luck favors me.

"Hey, beautiful," I say, when my wife, Narcissa, descends the stairs. She's all in white, her blonde hair shining and floating out from her head as though gravity itself, awed by her beauty and grace, has stepped aside. As she gets closer, I see she's wearing the emerald—the very first piece of jewelry I ever gave her. Her blue eyes seem darker, standing out against all that blinding white. She's gorgeous.

"You're not so bad yourself," she teases, her fingers darting to stroke the front of my robes. I close my eyes, savoring her feather-light touches.

"Shall we?" I say at last, looking down at her and marveling at my good fortune. All my problems seem millions of miles away, and I feel at peace. How does she do that?

"Magic," Narcissa says, and I blink, trying to recall an echo of her thoughts in my mind. Or did I speak aloud?

Normally, I'd be up in arms, trying to figure it out, discover the hole in my defenses—but at the moment, I can't seem to care.

Narcissa floats, and I stroll, to the dining room, where I do a surreptitious Space-Altering Charm so that we're close enough to talk comfortably, and I can reach her feet with mine. At the same time, there's plenty of room for that ugly centerpiece my grandmother Zuriñe loved so much, and the towering plates of food.

I don't even notice the house-elves, my vision entirely centered on my wife. We talk and laugh and it's wonderful.

Typically, real life intrudes before long. Also typically, it's in the form of my half-crazy sister-in-law.

"Cissy! You'll never guess what's happened!" Bellatrix's eyes are shining, and she's practically jumping up and down in her excitement.

"Bellatrix," I sigh exasperatedly, "now _really_ isn't a good time."

"The Dark Lord requires your presence—_both_ of you," Bellatrix says significantly, still grinning.

I get up quickly, and Narcissa asks, "What's going on, B?" She sounds almost too calm.

"You're going to join the Inner Circle!" Bellatrix's eyes flash happily, and I realize she actually thinks this is a _good_ thing.

Maybe Rodolphus Lestrange doesn't mind his wife being an illegal vigilante with a penchant for torture, but I'm not about to allow _my wife_ to be dragged into this damned war.

The Dark Lord must be out of his mind.

"Me?" Narcissa stands, clutching her chair with one white hand. The other rests on her flat stomach. Almost…protectively.

"Yeah, it's going to be great! We can go on missions together! The Black sisters, together again!" Bellatrix says ecstatically, throwing an arm around Narcissa's shoulders.

I wonder if Bellatrix realizes she's just reminded Narcissa of their other sister, Andromeda. She disgraced herself, why I still don't know, and now every mention of her hurts Narcissa. I find myself resisting the temptation to hex Bellatrix.

"B, I…I'm not…you know I'm—and then, now—" Narcissa subsides when Bellatrix and I both wince; we've just been summoned by the Dark Lord.

"Come on, Cissy!" Bellatrix says impatiently, and, gripping my wife's arms tightly, she twirls on the spot and they both disappear.

"Merlin's gonads!" I swear, and Disapparate, following the pressure in my left arm.

The Dark Lord is currently using several manor houses as hideouts, including Lestrange Manor, where I appear. The place is falling to pieces around Bellatrix and the Dark Lord's heads, but neither of them seem to care for that. I doubt a house-elf has even set foot in the place in years. It's criminal, the way the Lestranges have let their image go.

Narcissa and Bellatrix are standing in front of the Dark Lord's makeshift throne, looking like an illustration for opposites: Bellatrix, dark, tall, dramatic, with her snarled black curls and bold gestures, and Narcissa, pale, slim, delicate, with her cloud of blonde hair and fine, graceful movements.

"Ah, Lucius," says the Dark Lord. "So you've decided to join us."

I stride forward, drop to my knees and kiss his robes, and retreat to stand beside my wife.

"My Lord," I murmur respectfully.

"So," the Dark Lord says coolly, clearly enjoying himself, "We are pleased to admit your lovely wife to Our most elite forces. She is, We understand, a most powerful witch."

"That's my little sister," Bellatrix says happily, squeezing Narcissa's shoulder. I watch her wince in pain, my heart sinking.

"Your pardon, Lord," I say, "But my wife is delicate—her greatest strengths lie in the social realm, not the arcane one."

Not entirely accurate—so sue me. I refuse to let my wife turn into her sister, a slavering instrument of torture who, unless I much miss my guess, has absolutely no idea how to run a successful household.

"Nonsense!" Bellatrix protests. "Like all the Blacks, my sister is a truly powerful witch, who will do honor to our cause!"

"My Lord," I say desperately, "a woman's place is in the home; how can we protect our pureblood way of life by destroying it?"

"We will take both points of view under advisement," the Dark Lord says, clearly enjoying his new hobby of playing a judge in court. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was angling for Minister of Magic.

There's a small pause, in which I anxiously attempt to determine a foolproof course of action, and Bellatrix pouts, still digging her nails into my wife's skin.

"Mrs. Malfoy," the Dark Lord says at length. "What do you think? Would you like to join Us?"

"Lord," Narcissa says slowly, "I am, of course, devoted to your cause. I hope and trust that you will be successful in all your endeavors. To that end, I feel my place is at my husband's side—supporting him, and through him, you. Furthermore, you will need pureblood children to carry on your mission. I'm…pregnant."

A jolt of joy passes through me, tinged with deep apprehension. Which does not prove unfounded: into the silence, my sister-in-law's harsh voice sounds—

"So?" she asks.

Narcissa puts a hand on her stomach, and I feel her sway beside me. Worried, I chance one look at her—is she going to faint?

"A pureblood heir," the Dark Lord says. "How…marvelous."

"Thank you, my Lord," I say, pretending that this settles the question. Unobtrusively, I slip my hand under Narcissa's elbow.

"But my Lord—" Bellatrix pouts.

"Mrs. Malfoy won't be going on dangerous missions in her delicate condition, Bella," the Dark Lord says sternly. "But perhaps you and Lucius here should spend some time together. You remember the…assignment I mentioned to you?" At her petulant nod, he smiles mirthlessly. "Bring Lucius. And play nice—he's going to be a father."

Surprisingly, he lets Narcissa leave, then. I Apparate her home—pregnant witches shouldn't try Apparition themselves—and we have only a moment together.

"This is wonderful," I say, leaning my forehead against hers.

"I'm so glad," she beams, too happy even to smile. "A baby, Lucius—_our baby_…"

"I love you," I whisper, and then the Dark Mark burns on my arm.

I Disapparate, not looking forward to a night of Bellatrix's whining. But at least I have a beautiful, brave wife who is carrying my child, waiting for me safe at home in my family mansion.

I really am a fortunate man.


	8. Parchmentwork

Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble; also, it's the fourth part of a four-part mini-story about Lucius, Narcissa, and a certain prophecy.

* * *

**Parchmentwork**

It's just a piece of paper. Narcissa stares at it, ink blurring before her eyes.

The Healers have gone, now. The room feels bare and chill, without them rushing around. Narcissa doesn't like it.

The truth is that she's lonely. But it's more than that.

Narcissa closes her eyes, reliving the past couple of months…

"'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ...' That's all I heard," Severus says nervously, sullenly.

"We will find this child," the Dark Lord says. "Look for likely mothers, all of you. And let not a word of this reach The Meddling Old Fool." Dumbledore gets his own title.

Narcissa's hand on her pregnancy bump, too obvious…"Of course, my Lord. We are your humble servants in this, as in all things," Lucius saying smoothly, not looking at her…

July is ever more quickly approaching, and the Healers tell Narcissa her baby will be born on the twenty-second of that month…Fear clutches her heart.

She knows well it won't matter if she and Lucius have ever actually defied the Dark Lord, but she finds herself going over all the times she's met him anyway…her wedding, when she put cloves and mallowsweet and all sorts of things in his tea, and Lucius helped—thank Salazar she was right about his terrible sense of smell, or they'd never have survived for their honeymoon…or what of his demand for Malfoy Manor, the one she and Lucius deftly sidestepped, sacrificing her brother-in-law's ancestral home instead…and then when she was pregnant the first time, with Lyra (her mind strays away from that as fast as possible; it's still too painful, and she should be grateful if she can carry this baby to term), he wanted her to take the Mark and join the Inner Circle—she and B could have braided one another's hair over the dead bodies…

July, July, July…There are other pregnant witches, but a few of the younger Death Eaters, the ones who've never before run afoul of her family, eye her askance…

If only that were all, Narcissa thinks she could bear it; what are a few glances, after all, to a Black?

But then that afternoon in May, drinking tea with B and Rabastan's wife, Leea…

"I'm so happy for you," Leea Lestrange says conventionally.

"Yes—just as long as…" B starts, then bites her lip and looks away from Narcissa's eyes.

That's when Narcissa knows there's something in the whispers; B, shy away from a sensitive topic? Honestly, she hadn't known it was possible.

Blood magic is dangerous. Narcissa knows that, knows it as surely as she knows it's her only hope.

Luckily, she's been very well trained.

The book, loose in its binding, the recipe, stained with spatters of she knows not what—the screen, to block even the mildest candlelight…

Narcissa can't quite see in the dark, but this goes deeper than sight. She can do it,

Ingredients, some legal, others…not. The only person they'll harm is herself, however; she wouldn't feel guilty for this even if she cared for the law.

And at last—one swift cut with the ceremonial knife, the one that's known more magic than the Dark Lord ever will, even if, as some say, he is going to live forever…

A few drops of blood, one final stir, and Narcissa pours the potion into a glass vial, climbs the stairs out of the dungeons while she can still do so on her own power, toasts her husband's family portraits ironically (she is saving their heir, after all) and downs the potion in one swift gulp.

Pain—pain like she's never experienced…she has just time to think, with surprise, that it's even worse than with Lyra, and that perhaps she should've firecalled the Healers first…

When she comes to, she's being wheeled into an operating room at St. Mungo's. About bloody time, she thinks, and screams from the pain.

At last, though, Draco is born. He's beautiful; he looks just like his father.

She gets a few moments with her darling son, born June 1st, thank you very much, before the Healers take him away to run the customary tests and Lucius sweeps in, hem of his robes soaked in mud, little droplets of something wet and red mixed in. He's obviously just come from an…assignment.

He snatches a moment with Draco—just a mutual, meaningful stare and a gentle caress—and then the Healers sweep the tiny Malfoy heir out of the room, and Lucius sits down beside Narcissa.

"I'm so sorry," he says, sounding heartbroken. "I should have been here."

"It's fine," Narcissa reassures him. "We're both fine."

"He's amazing," Lucius says. "I can't believe it—our son."

"I know." They're silent for a moment, just thinking. Being together.

"The Healers told me…" Lucius says at last.

"There won't be any more children," Narcissa finishes for him. She knows she sounds detached, but Lucius puts an arm around her, trying to soothe.

Of course he knows how much this hurts. Narcissa's always wanted a big family—lots of little blonde children just like their father.

They don't speak again for a long time. It seems there's nothing to say.

And now—now Narcissa has a moment to herself. Her baby and her husband are no doubt waiting, or else filling out more endless parchmentwork—you wouldn't think having a child would entail so many tedious and banal forms.

She's staring at the most important piece of paper of all: Draco's birth certificate. Silly, really; to think a simple matter of ink on a page can determine a child's destiny.

Narcissa blinks, trying to get the stark reality of where she is out of her mind. She honestly never thought it would come to this—does she regret it?

Anxiously, she probes her own feelings—suddenly this has become the most important question of all.

She could have waited—maybe just a couple more weeks, the end of July's not for another two months, really—but in her heart, she doubts a difference of a few weeks in either direction would mean much to the Dark Lord. 'As the seventh month dies…' Prophecies are always so irritatingly vague, that even when they're quite clear, it's hard to be sure. And the Dark Lord likes to be sure.

Narcissa mourns the children she and Lucius won't have, now—but then, there's no certainty in life; she couldn't be sure she wouldn't miscarry them all, anyway.

Not to mention the fact that Abraxas Malfoy has rather a bee in his bonnet about the Malfoy tradition of only one son—Narcissa's never heard anything so foolish.

Angry—more with herself than her father-in-law—she brushes her pale blonde hair out of her eyes and folds Draco's birth certificate with shaking hands.

"Narcissa?" Lucius enters, holding Draco. "We can go home now."

Home. Narcissa looks into her son's cool gray eyes, and knows that it was all worth it. To save her family, she would do it over again in a heartbeat.

"Yes," she says, smiling faintly. "Oh, yes, Lucius—let's go home."


	9. The Princess Bounce

Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble, either. But it is a oneshot. Set between DH and the epilogue.

* * *

**The Princess Bounce**

"She's gone."

"No!" Tori, hugely pregnant and clearly distraught, throws herself against Draco's chest, sobbing on his shoulder. "She is not gone! Not my daughter!"

Draco isn't listening. "Someone took her. Someone—I should never have let her come here." He stares around in disgust at Aunt Andromeda's tiny little Muggle hovel. His Aunt Andromeda is known for her skill with children, but obviously not for her defensive spells. Or her housekeeping.

"I'm sorry, so sorry…" Aunt Andromeda murmurs, looking genuinely distressed. Still, Draco thinks, there are no tears in her eyes—and how can he be sure this isn't part of some elaborate revenge? Aunt Bellatrix killed his cousin Nymphadora, and now Aunt Andromeda blames the living...will hurt Draco's daughter…

No! He can't believe it. Not Aunt Andromeda…

But someone—someone snuck his little girl, his darling Altaira, out of this wretched hovel, and who knows where she is now, in what danger, fear, pain—Draco once thought the Dark Lord terrified him—the thought of losing his little girl is much worse.

"Where…?" he murmurs to himself. "Who…?"

Of course, his first visit is to the Ministry, after depositing a weeping Tori, a rigid Aunt Andromeda, and his cousin Teddy, whose hair has turned Weeping Willow green in sympathy, back home at Malfoy Manor. He trusts, vaguely, that his mother will look after them.

"Missing Persons report? Oh, you'll have to talk to someone down in International Magical Law," the clerk says breezily.

Draco highly doubts that. If he were running the Ministry, he wouldn't make it this difficult for a concerned parent—and he doesn't believe the place really is that badly organized, not with Minister Shacklebolt, who runs a tight ship—

But, he's a Malfoy, and, as such, barely allowed in the Ministry on sufferance; so he grits his teeth and heads for those abominable lifts, resisting the temptation to hex that smug clerk, who can have no idea what's going on here—unless he's in on it; is this some national conspiracy? The latest in a long string of threats—he remembers the weekly hate mail was a smidge more vindictive the other day—obviously not everyone thinks his family has been punished enough—

His lips tighten. Whoever they are, they will regret dragging his daughter into this.

Naturally, the Office of Magical Law has no idea why they would be consulted, and they advise him to see the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, just to get that part out of the way.

But Draco's already tired of following orders. He's going straight to the top.

Well—not the actual top, because there is absolutely no way that insufferable prat Percy Weasley is letting Draco in to see Shacklebolt—even if he told them the sky was falling, Draco suspects the Ministry would simply roll its collective eyes, sigh, and send him off to yet another useless flunky—but to the relative top.

He's going to see the one person whose job this is, an old enemy, and yet the only one he's sure isn't one of the kidnappers.

It could be Weasley, the clerk, Magical Law or Muggle-Worthy Excuses, Umbridge, whom he meets in the lift and exchanges several nightmarish, banal comments with, or any of them—but not—

"Potter," Draco says, the usual irritation burning lightly through his veins at the sight of his favorite archrival. It's almost comforting.

"Malfoy," Potter says, sounding bewildered. "Is…something wrong?"

"My daughter," Draco says hoarsely. "She's been kidnapped."

"What?" Potter's eyes narrow. "When? Are you sure?"

"Just now—or rather, about an hour ago. I've been delayed by some of your more...assiduous colleagues. And of course I'm sure, Potter. You can check the magical traces for yourself, just come _on_."

"Draco, I'm in the middle of a case, I can't just skip out—Look, I'll get Ron to help you—"

"Oh, no you don't," Draco interrupts. "He hates me—more than you do. It'd be pretty easy to delay me even more, wouldn't you say?"

Potter's mouth opens to refute the insult to his friend, and Draco holds up a hand. "I didn't say he'd do it on purpose. But you know Weasel hasn't forgotten about our fabulous little family feud, and I'm not willing to risk Altaira's life." His voice has changed; bitterness and fear curl around his words. Draco looks Potter in those vibrant green eyes so like Tori's, and says—and _begs_—"You have to help me, Potter. You're my only hope."

There. No Gryffindor, as Draco well knows, can resist an appeal like _that_.

Too bad it's true—no, he won't think that—not when Altaira needs him to be strong.

Potter looks at him for a long moment—and then nods. "Very well, Draco. I'll find your daughter."

--

The room is ordinary. A bit grayish. Couple of boxes pushed against the wall, dusty floor, blank walls, and one window.

Altaira Narcissa Malfoy, age two years and eight months, has finally stopped crying, and started looking around.

All she knows is that the men who took her are scary and mean, and that she wants to go home.

She can't call out because they stole her voice—even her tears are quiet. She can't hurt them because they're not here, and even at two Altaira realizes a huge, uncontrolled tantrum on a scale that could shake the house's foundations would only bury her in gray walls and old boxes.

The window is too high up for Altaira to see through; she's got no idea where she is.

And she's trapped.

--

"Okay," Potter says, standing in Aunt Andromeda's front yard, "I'm going to trace your daughter's magical signature; got anything of hers with you?"

Mutely, Draco hands him a pink, flowery sweater. It's hand-knit, and Potter's brows raise, but he doesn't comment.

He taps the sweater with his wand, mutters something Draco doesn't catch, and seems almost to go into a kind of trance. Draco waits, impatient but not about to alienate his only ally.

At last, Potter moves. His eyes open, and, without warning, he grabs Draco's elbow and Apparates them both into darkness.

--

"I still say we should kill the brat and be done with it," grumbles Jack Sloper, slumping against the walls of the ordinary, gray house.

"It'd be easier," agrees Andrew Kirke, shrugging. He either doesn't care, or doesn't want to seem to.

"She's a bloody nuisance, all that crying—and it'd serve Malfoy right," Sloper continues, warming to his subject. "She'll just grow up to be another demon, like all them Malfoys and pureblood scum—throwing her money around while good folk die. There's no reason to let her live, really. Let's go and—"

"No!" The voice cuts across Sloper and Kirke like a whip, and they both flinch. "This," continues a blonde woman a few years older than Draco Malfoy, "is strictly a monetary operation. Don't you want to see the color of Malfoy's gold? We are not harming the girl."

"But, Alicia—" whines Sloper.

Alicia Spinnet whirls, advancing on him. "You swore to obey me for the duration of the ransom, did you not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then shut your mouth, and send the owl." She turns away, honey-blonde hair swishing neatly. "Oh, and Sloper?" She adds lightly.

"Yes?"

"That's Ms. Spinnet, to you."

--

"She was here," Potter says, staring around at the tiny alley. "I know it—but I can't get us any closer via magical signature—we'll have to search manually."

"Fabulous," Draco drawls, "Just the two of us, a radius of—" he pauses to allow Potter to fill in the amount.

Potter sighs. "I know. I'll have to call in reinforcements. But I'm almost completely sure she's in one of these houses."

"Well, I'm not just going to stand here—" Draco begins; suddenly, a silvery wolverine appears and slides gracefully to stand in front of Draco and Potter.

"A ransom note has arrived. Return to the Manor immediately," it says in his father's voice, and disappears.

Ignoring the sudden spike of helpless rage toward the kidnappers and the twist of irritation about his father's curt message—as though he were still a child to be ordered here and there—Draco nods to Potter.

"I'm going to go," he says. "Just—just find her. Please."

Potter, looking concerned, claps Draco reassuringly on the back. "I'll keep looking."

--

"'A hundred thousand galleons,'" Draco reads aloud, "'Or you'll never see the little blonde brat again.'" He looks up. "I'll Floo over to Gringotts right away." Draco is actually nearly to the fireplace before his father's sharp words stop him in his tracks.

"Draco, you're not thinking of _paying_ this, are you?"

"Of course he is!" Tori jumps in. "There's nothing we wouldn't do to get Tairi back—don't you understand that?" Absently, Draco notes that she's still frantic, that she's probably furious with him for not letting her help search—

"Don't _you_ understand that these…_peons _won't stop; give them money now, you might as well be telling them you'll do the same in future; neither Altaira, nor any future children will ever be safe from this threat. You would condemn yourselves to such a half-life, letting our family's coffers, heritage, and lifeblood be slowly drained away?" Lucius pauses, to let that sink in.

Draco feels cold; his father is right. Even if paying the money will get him his daughter back, the kidnappers will do it again. And even if he and Potter capture them, paying the ransom will make some other cretin get the bright idea that the Malfoys are a soft touch, and then—

No, he can't think this way. What does some dim future matter, when his daughter's life is in danger _now_?

"Fine," Tori says through clenched teeth, "What's_ your_ suggestion then?"

"Our priority must be to get Altaira back safe and sound," Narcissa interjects gently. She frowns thoughtfully. "Draco, speak to Gringotts as you suggested—we have to have time to plan. They'll need to send another owl, anyway, with a place and time to make the exchange. Meanwhile—if only we had some idea where they are—"

"We do; Potter's there right now," Draco says, feeling torn between cooperating with the kidnappers, because that ought to be the safest thing for Tairi, or going back to the small, ordinary neighborhood Potter swears his daughter is still within and hexing anyone who gets in his way.

"Go," his mother tells him. "Find her, my son; I'll speak to Gringotts."

"Not without me you don't," Tori says firmly, and hooks her arm through Draco's before he can Disapparate.

"I hope you realize—" Lucius starts to say, but for once, Draco doesn't even pretend to listen.

--

The doorknob shakes. Altaira, wan and tired and hungry, freezes.

"Come out, little girl…" the bad man's voice croons. "Come out, wherever you are…"

Altaira, jolted back to the reality of her situation, scrambles as quietly as possible up the tower of boxes she's built underneath the window.

"Even if Alicia won't let us kill you, little bargaining chip, there're other things…Death Eaters killed my parents, you know—and my brother; he was turning eleven, that year…but I s'pose you know all about them wicked, foul, loathsome bastards, don't you? Related to half of 'em, aren't you?"

Altaira tugs frantically at the window latch; it's locked—

"Damn door, what's it doing stuck like this? Knew we should've picked somewhere a bit more lived in—" There's a rattle, and then the door swings open.

Altaira whirls to face the bad man, eyes wide and fingers still desperately fiddling with the lock on the window.

The bad man doesn't look like much—scruffy and ugly and much too big, filling the whole room to Altaira's inexperienced eyes—but she knows he'll figure in her nightmares.

Assuming she gets back home to her own bed, where nightmares are only in imagination—Altaira wants to cry for Mommy, Daddy, and Grandma Cissy, but she doesn't have any tears left.

"There you are," says the bad man. And then, taking in the pile of boxes upon which she's standing—"_What _are you doing?"

In that moment, Altaira feels an unreasoning panic—she can't stay here another second, she just _can't_—

And, a burst of underage magic later, the lock breaks, the window flies open, and Altaira leaps out, extending her arms and legs in a futile attempt to float through the air instead of crashing down to the pavement many meters below—

--

"No, I don't know of any little blonde girl in the neighborhood, recently or otherwise, and I very much resent this unwarranted intrusion onto my property—"

"Please," Tori weeps, standing dejectedly on yet another respectable front porch. "She's my little girl—if you've seen anything out of the ordinary—"

"Draco!" yells Potter suddenly, from the door of a nearby house. Draco, currently in the process of scanning the area with a sophisticated enhanced vision spell, whirls at the sound of Potter's voice, in time to see—

His daughter, flying out of an upstairs window, hurtling groundward—

At the same moment, three wands aim at the falling girl, but before a single spell can be cast, Altaira hits the ground—only to bounce back up about half her original height.

Harry, Draco, and Tori watch in horrified fascination for at least three more bounces before all three shake off their stupor and dash for Altaira.

"Mommy, Daddy!" Altaira tries to shout joyfully, but the words stick in her throat; her whole body shakes with silent, angry sobs at the unfairness of it all.

"Finite Incantatem," Potter says breathlessly, upon reaching the little family.

Suddenly, Altaira's sobs are loud in the summer air, and Draco sweeps her into his arms, more thankful than he can possibly express.

"Are you all right?" he asks urgently.

"B-bad man," Altaira explains through her tears. "Made me not talk—scary!" And she snuggles against her father's shoulder, clinging to what safety she can.

"How many?" Potter asks, looking speculatively at the house from which Altaira so spectacularly flew.

"Bad, _bad _men! Stay away!" Altaira says sternly.

Draco hands Tairi to Tori, who is weeping at least as hard as her daughter. "Thank Salazar you're safe!" Tori says, over and over.

"C'mon," Draco says, and starts for the house.

"Stop! Wait! Think!" Potter complains behind him. "The reinforcements will be here in a couple of minutes—she's safe, you have to leave the rest to my department—"

Technically, Potter isn't yet Head of this department, but everyone knows it's only a matter of time until Gawain Robards retires. Draco doesn't care, though.

All he knows is that there are men in there who kidnapped his daughter. However many there are, he will kill them all for daring to lay so much as a finger on her.

Some of his murderous intent must be visible, since Potter grabs his arm and swings him around. "Draco, listen to me," Potter says firmly, in his best I'm-the-hero-do-not-mess-with-me tone. "I understand, I do, but I don't want to have to arrest you, too, at the end of the day. I'll come with you, we'll go in now, but non-lethal, non-permanent spells only, understand?"

Sullenly, Draco nods. Potter is fully capable of carrying out his threat, particularly since it's only thanks to him the entire Malfoy family wasn't locked in Azkaban, with people like the Weasleys having thrown away the key.

"All right," Potter says, looking at the cold gray house where it stands, rather ominously. "Just—stay behind me."

--

Harry thinks he should have known better than to expect Draco to follow his orders. He would really prefer Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, or Neville as back-up in this situation.

But Neville's at Hogwarts, Luna's in Rumania researching some bizarre magical creature, Hermione's speaking before the Wizengamot about more house-elf legislation, Ron's probably wading through the case Harry dumped in his lap so he could dash off and save Draco's daughter, and Ginny's home pretending to rest, on account of the baby set to make his appearance some time in January.

Harry bemoans his situation inwardly. It's been years since he's dashed off on some reckless mission this unprepared. If Draco gets him killed, he's going to revoke that whole Chosen One's get-out-of-jail-free card on Lucius, at the very least.

The house is dark, gray, and a bit musty, like it hasn't been lived in for a long while. Harry strains his senses, trying to get some sense of the battlefield (for what else will it be?) and somehow figure out where the kidnappers are with nothing more than his instincts.

"Hominum revelo," he whispers, when he finally decides that isn't going to work. "Three people, I think," he tells Draco.

Draco looks pleased—obviously thinking that he can take three, might not even need Harry's help—though Harry knows, from personal experience, that it still rather depends on the people themselves—and Harry winces.

--

"There! Petrificus Totalus! Stupefy!" Draco shouts, pointing his wand at the flash of robes he's just seen heading for the back door.

"_Move_, you doddering, overgrown numbskulls!" a woman's voice cries in exasperation.

Draco sends another spell in the direction of her voice, but he's dueling one of the others—a thin, rather malnourished-looking man who reminds him vaguely of Gryffindor, though in what capacity he's not sure—before he can find the woman.

Beside and behind him, Potter is defending himself against the third kidnapper. Draco feels strangely reassured that Potter hasn't gone back to work and abandoned him yet; Altaira is safe, so he could. He's already mentioned what he thinks of Draco's reckless behavior.

But those cretins will get away if they don't act immediately—Draco was sure of that even before he heard the woman's frantic command.

And he's not letting them escape.

Draco finishes off his opponent with a feint composed of several complex spells, and then a Stunning Spell underneath that the man can neither combat nor dodge in time.

Panting, Draco looks for further adversaries—only to discover Potter stepping over the body of his own opponent toward the door.

They look, but there's no sign of the woman. She's probably, Draco reflects bitterly, halfway to Bermuda or somewhere by now.

--

"Take them into custody," Potter tells the blackclad Aurors who recently appeared out of nowhere.

Tori shifts Altaira to her other hip, at a greater distance from those monsters. If only Draco would come out of that gloomy, Godric-forsaken house so they can go home.

Briefly, Tori feels guilty for not having sent word to Altaira's grandparents, who are probably frantic with worry—well, Narcissa is, anyway. Lucius—Tori supposes he'll probably get more possessive if this next baby is a boy.

And—yes, there's Draco, walking toward Potter, and looking rather defeated, considering they have Tairi back. That's all that matters to Tori.

Well—and that next time her daughter visits with Draco's Aunt Andromeda and sweet little Teddy, it will be at the Manor, where generations of xenophobic anti-Muggle, anti-stranger spells still linger.

Potter dismisses the Aurors, who Disapparate with the two unconscious villains, and Tori watches as he turns to greet her husband.

"Those two will be charged," Potter says wearily, "But I'm afraid the woman could be anywhere by now."

"I know," Draco nods. "I—you stayed, you backed me up in there—why?"

"I'm a father, too," Potter says seriously. "Besides, you know us Gryffindors—can't abide injustice."

Draco sneers, but it's his more friendly sneer, the one that, on most people's faces, would probably be a smile. Tori grins, relieved he's not going to quarrel with the Chosen One, and that he seems to be feeling better.

"Thank you," Draco says stiffly, but sincerely, and Potter nods, and then Draco's there, his arms going around Tori and Tairi like he'll never let them go—

They're safe, together again. Tairi has brightened up considerably, and Tori dares to hope she's not too desperately traumatized. With luck, it's something an ice cream can cure, now that the villains are gone.

Of course, soon enough Tairi will be asking about the brave man who helped rescue her, the one with black hair and glasses, and Lucius will fly into a rage against all things Potter—

But that's another story.


	10. Pathetic Excuse for a Killer

Author's Note: this one IS a drabble...

* * *

**Pathetic Excuse for a Killer**

_To kill or not to kill: that is the question:_

_Whether 'tis wiser in the mind to suffer_

_The curses and hexes of outrageous Dark Lords,_

_Or to take arms against a sea of Death Eaters,_

_And by opposing die horribly? To kill; to torture;_

_No more;_

Oh, who am I kidding? I can't do this! I can't do any of this! I'm a pathetic excuse for a Malfoy—I'd say my father was right about me, except if he knew what _he _was doing, he wouldn't be in Azkaban, would he?

My whole life is falling apart.

Mother walks through the manor like a ghost, like this whole thing is already killing her, and even the portraits look sympathetic. Last time I was home, one of them actually told me:

"Do not fear, scion of my house; this too shall pass."

Just what I need; help from dead people.

Too bad I've got that, actually; that's the one thing I _do _have: Myrtle. She's not so bad, once you realize a person really _could _have that much to moan about.

No one understands: not Greg or Vince, not Pansy, not _Snape_, and sure as hell not the teachers. If they knew what I was planning, they'd—

I don't even know. I guess they wouldn't kill me, but what difference would that make? Any hint of my disloyalty or complete incapability of doing the job reaches the Dark Lord's ears, I'm doomed.

And so's Mother.

No—I can't let anything happen to her, I can't!

But—to kill Dumbl—no, by Salazar, Draco, you'd think after all these years in Slytherin you'd know better than to write down incriminating evidence!

I'm more than pathetic; I'm totally undeserving of Mother's confidence, or Father's pride, or the Malfoy name—

I don't know why I even try; I'll never be enough for darling Auntie Bellatrix, much less the Dark Lord—I shouldn't even bother.

But what choice do I have?

_(This spare bit of parchment, heavily hexed and spattered with drops of liquid (diplomatically presumed to have been caused by Moaning Myrtle's watery temper tantrums), was found wedged in a crack in the wall on the first floor of Hogwarts, after the Final Battle._

_It was used—much against its writer's will—as evidence in the famous Malfoy Trials, after which it was transferred to form part of the official war memorial at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.)_


	11. Lonely Wood

Author's Note: Another drabble set before Harry (and Draco's) fourth year.

* * *

**Lonely Wood**

Waiting.

Waiting. And waiting.

It's funny, Draco reflects, how_ boring_ evil plots are, once in actual progress. Really, the planning is the only worthwhile part.

And he didn't even get _any _say in this scheme's planning. He isn't sure, honestly, if there _was_ any planning at all.

Get a bunch of old cronies together, they'll try and relive their glory days—it's a fact.

Draco frowns, leaning against a tree and watching the fires. Tents going up like so much tissue paper.

Irrationally, Draco wishes he could see his father from here. Stupid, he's aware: a glimpse of Lucius's long pale hair beneath his Death Eater hood would mean trouble for the family—scandal at the very least. And at the Quidditch World Cup, no less!

Nervous, Draco finds himself searching for a distraction. He kicks a twig half-heartedly, wishing he could join in the action—do_ something_, instead of just standing here. The wood is dark and deserted, and Draco feels oppressed by the gloom.

What's he doing here again?

Oh, right; Mother didn't want her precious son in the line of fire, even if all they're doing is torturing a few Muggles and inconveniencing anyone who owns their own tent. Speaking of which, where _is _Mother?

Draco stares at the black-cloaked figures, wondering…his mother hates this sort of showing off, always has, and yet where else can she be, but a member of that faceless horde?

Nearby, he hears the sound of several people blundering through the wood toward him. And then there's the Mudblood Granger's voice, high and irritating: "Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid—_lumos_!"

He whirls in time to see Ron Weasley trip spectacularly and fall onto the ground, a sight that does cheer him up considerably.

"Tripped over a tree root," Weasley snarls, and, to Draco's disappointment, gets up, apparently none the worse for wear. Unfortunate.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," Draco drawls, and they whirl, not having noticed him until now.

Gryffindors are so unobservant.

Draco smirks happily. While he can still insult Potter and company, all is surely right with the world.

It's only later that Draco wonders if he was waiting for _them_.


	12. Love by Numbers

Author's Note: Drabble about Draco's younger daughter Vulpecula (not Canon, I know). For her Sorting, see Sorted and Consorted with a Sorting Hat .

* * *

**Love by Numbers**

_One: Good looks._

Harry Wood really is attractive, with that hair in his face so he's always flipping it out of the way all adorably, and his eyes, which are the prettiest hazel Vulpecula Malfoy has ever seen, and his slow, arrogant smile. Plus, he's on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and everyone knows that earns a guy cuteness points.

_Two: Coolness factor._

Like Vulpecula said, Harry Wood is on the Quidditch Team, which automatically makes him cool. And then he's a Gryffindor, which is also a step in the right direction.

Don't get her wrong: Vulpecula's whole family, not to mention her two best friends in the entire world, Lily Potter and Luther Dagworth, are in Slytherin—but ever since the Final Battle of the Second Great War, it's really better to be in Gryffindor. Slyths are sweeties, really, and 'Claws are brilliant, duh, and 'Puffs are excellent study-buddies, but Gryffs have got the respect, the connections.

_Three: Age._

Harry Wood is a fifth year, which means he's fifteen, which is two whole years older than Vulpecula, who may be a Gryff but who is still only a lowly third-year, and a Malfoy at that.

All in all, is it surprising that, when Harry Wood asks, in a low voice that sends shivers up Vulpecula's spine: "Hey, wanna come to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?" she melts at once, agrees in a breathy monosyllable, and starts panicking about what to wear?

Her first choices as to who will help her get ready are, of course, Lily and Luther. "Wood? He hates Slyths; I can't believe you'd sink so low," Luther complains.

"He probably wants you to spy on us so he can tell his father's friends at the Ministry about all our plans and get us expelled," is Lily's paranoid theory.

As if they'd ever expel Harry Potter's daughter, no matter what she did! Vulpecula is hurt, but tries not to show it.

Instead, she gets her roommates to help her. They giggle over the exact process of outfit-selection, and tell her how lucky she is.

Vulpecula smiles and nods.

Which is what she does in Hogsmeade, too.

Because it turns out that, behind those gorgeous eyes and that stunning Quidditch-honed physique, is a singularly dull young wizard.

"Malfoy…I've heard that name somewhere before…" he is even tactless, or clueless, enough to say.

Vulpecula stares. _Everyone_ has heard of her family. They've been called the scourge of civilized Newblood society, the last Death Eaters out of Azkaban…

Besides, she thinks her pride is insulted. A Gryff Malfoy is still a _Malfoy,_ after all.

"You're really pretty," is his only other comment about_ her_. From then on, he's describing his Quidditch prowess for what seems hours, until at last Vulpecula can't take it anymore.

Her first real date, and _this_.

Later, "you were right!" she sniffs, and Lily and Luther pat her reassuringly on the back.

Apparently, sometimes one plus one plus one adds up to zero.


	13. The EitherOr Labels

Author's Note: Drabble; Lucius/Lily.

* * *

**The Either-Or Labels**

_Witch, Mudblood, Idiot, Warrior…_

Lily Evans Potter doesn't much care what they call her. She'll rise above it. She always has before.

_Pureblood, Rich boy, Fanatic, Sadist…_

Lucius Malfoy takes it all with a smile, when he must. He'll curse whom he can, though, for daring to dishonor his name.

_Order member, Do-Gooder, One of Dumbledore's slaves…_

Lily's fighting for her life, which only means it's Tuesday and she's on duty, when she catches a glimpse of blond hair under a Death Eater hood.

Her eyes narrow.

There aren't many people with hair like that, she's aware.

That Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater doesn't shock her—she has _met _the man—but the fact that he alone of her assailants doesn't seem to be aiming for her stomach does.

You-Know-Who definitely knows about the baby—did Malfoy not get the memo?

_Death Eater, Villain, Dark Lord's bootlicker…_

And that's how it starts. He can't bear to curse her baby, not when he's about to become a father himself.

He knows she's only a Mudblood, but somehow it's hard to think that in the face of her bravery and extraordinary beauty.

There are several more battles, during which he and Lily Evans rather circumspectly refrain from actually cursing one another, despite passing just feet from each other, and, on one memorable occasion, fighting with their backs to the same pillar.

Then Draco is born, and Lucius loses sight of Evans for some months.

He doesn't even think of her—much.

_Betrayer, Savior, Saint…_

It's been a terrible day. Lily fights with James whenever they're together, and she's going a bit stir-crazy. Harry frets and frets, and only Peter seems able to calm him down.

Lily has to get out of her house.

Afterwards, she's never sure why she chose that particular bar, much less why, when Lucius Malfoy offered to buy her a drink, she accepted.

It won't even occur to her until after the third drink that she'll need to brew an alcohol remedy to cure her breast milk, and not until Lucius is leading her into the alley behind the bar that he could have easily poisoned her, which would _definitely_ be a problem for her breast milk—

She won't regret that one night. What she truly doesn't understand is why she doesn't stop. He's like her forbidden fruit.

She knows she's an adulteress and a hypocrite—strangely, it's the latter that bothers her more.

_Idiot, User, Betrayer…_

He loves the way she kisses, her aggression, her pure anger, so much more powerful for its righteousness…

He loves the lure of the forbidden, always has, and he admires her more than he would have thought possible…

"You're the smartest, most beautiful, bravest Mudblood in the world," he tells her, and to him, it's the best compliment he could ever give her.

She just laughs.

They are enemies, lovers, and emphatically not friends—

But it hardly matters. Lily and Lucius have never needed labels.


	14. Luck, Be A Lady

Author's Note: Drabble; Scorpius/Rose.

* * *

**Luck, Be A Lady**

Oh. My. Dumbledore.

Breathe. In and out. That's it, Scorpius, you've been doing it for twenty-four years now.

I hop onto our dining room table, awkwardly scoot backward and fold my legs in one of those complex pretzel shapes Rose's Aunt Luna taught me, put my hands on my knees, and close my eyes.

Instead of the traditional meditation hum, I find myself going through my plan for the evening. Rose will come home, at six o'clock exactly, from her current part-time job organizing the Headmistress's office, and then she'll go directly to her desk and set down her things. Whereupon she'll see the journal, open it, and see the words: _Look in the bedroom._ She'll walk in there, see the box on her pillow, open it—and there will be many-greats Grandmother Ursula's engagement ring.

My imagination stops there. We've been together for seven years, you'd _think_—but then, what if this is all just a phase to get back at her parents? Or—

Deep breath. "They call you lady luck…" I sing waveringly, looking for any distraction. "But there is room for doubt…You have a very unladylike way/ Of running out…"

"Honey, I'm home!" Rose calls merrily. I jump about a meter in the air, hit my head on the ceiling, and roll off the table as fast as possible.

"You're early," I say, trying to catch my breath.

"Not much left to do," she shrugs. "Headmistress only hired me because no one believes I can pull off just doing my _own _research."

She dumps her bag, filled with books, on the floor, sighs, and shakes out her red hair. I love that hair.

"So, I was thinking: we should get married," she says matter-of-factly.

I can only stare, torn between shock, pleasure, and disappointment at the failure of my elaborate scheme before it was even begun.

"Scorpius? What do you think?" she asks, as though she wants my opinion on some obscure text, rather than our marriage.

"I think you are the most amazing person I've ever met," I say. "I would love to spend the rest of my life with you." She smiles, and I add, "Actually,_ I_ was going to ask _you_; there's a ring on your pillow."

"I'm glad," she says happily. "Oh, was that why you were singing before?"

"Just hoping the luck would favor me," I shrug.

She frowns. "'Shallow people believe in luck,'" she quotes. "'Strong people believe in cause and effect.'"

"Fine," I say briskly. "Cause: we're meant to be together. Effect: we had the same idea."

"Marriage," she nods, and grins mischievously. "How about you show me that ring now, and we'll see who gets lucky."

I grin, take her arm, and pull her toward the bedroom. And thank my_ lucky_ stars I found the one woman I love more than anything in the world—and who loves me.

--

Quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson


	15. Geometric Triangles

**Geometric Triangles**

"Look, Draco," Lucius says patiently. "The area of the triangle is base times height divided by two."

Draco scribbles furiously on his parchment for a moment, then wails, "I don't get it! Why do I have to learn this stuff? It's not magic!"

"On the contrary," Lucius purrs dangerously. "It may not require either a wand, or a cauldron, but mathematics is indeed magic. It's the most effective way to make money there is."

"But we already have a lot of money!" Draco protests. He scowls at the triangles in front of him. "And this doesn't make any sense!"

"We may have a considerable fortune, Draco, but it never hurts to increase one's resources," Lucius explains. "And most wizards foolishly neglect to interest themselves in this most obscure branch of magic, thereby severely limiting their own advancement. I will not allow you to make that mistake."

"Ohh," Draco whined. "Why not?"

"Weren't you listening? Being eight years old is no excuse for poor concentration, Draco! Focus! What is the area of this triangle?" Lucius jabs the parchment with his cane, and a small hole appears in the center of Draco's triangle.

Draco frowns. "Seven?" He suggests hesitantly.

Lucius sighs. "Base_ times_ height, Draco. Not plus. _Times_. What is four times three?"

"Twelve!" Draco exclaims, sure of himself at last. "Divided by two is six! Right?" he asks excitedly.

"Right," Lucius smiles. "Very good."

"Yes!" Draco cries ecstatically. "Now can I fly on my broom?"

Lucius pulls the parchment closer to his son. "Not until you've completed each of these exercises. And remember, you need to learn Calculus before you leave for Hogwarts in three years. You won't be able to keep up with your mathematical studies there, and Calculus is essential for the Stock Market."

"Stock Market?" Draco asks, confused.

"The method by which the Muggles make their money available to anyone with half a brain," Lucius says drily. "Now keep working; I expect all of these triangles solved before I get back from the Governors' meeting."

"Yes, Father," Draco says automatically, and stares forlornly down at the messy parchment as his father rises, preparing to leave for his meeting.

Draco just hopes Calculus is more fun than endless triangles. He's finished one, and he's already bored out of his mind.


	16. The Peanut Butter Break Up

**The Peanut Butter Break-Up**

"Whatcha doing?" I asked, perching on the table next to him, an open jar of peanut butter in my hands.

It's a Muggle invention, peanut butter; my father smuggles it into our world, changes the labels to something the WFA, the Wizarding Food Administration, will recognize. It was always my favorite, as a child.

I tucked one leg under the other, and licked the knife I'd used to stir the peanut butter. It's my comfort food—I always eat it plain.

"I'm a little busy, here, Pansy," Draco said, not even looking up at me. He was sitting, hunched over a diagram of what looked like a kitchen cabinet. I leaned closer, precariously balanced.

"Anything I can help with?" I asked.

"No," Draco said, but, rubbing his face exhaustedly, he tapped the papers with his wand. They rolled into a neat bundle, which he tucked into a pocket.

"You sure?" I offered him the peanut butter-covered knife. "Snack?"

Hesitantly, he took it—as though he'd forgotten what snacks were. "What _is_ this?" he asked, roused out of his apathy at last, once he'd taken a tentative lick.

"'S called peanut butter," I said, scraping some out of the jar with my finger. "Real delicacy."

"Pansy," he said, suddenly, turning to me. I met his eyes, and almost shivered, at the despair there. "If you were trying to…to give someone something, without anyone knowing it came from you…"

"I'd add a few more people to the trail, I guess," I shrugged. "You know, I arrange for person A to find the thing, and then person A gives it to person B, who gives it to person C, and so on until you're finished. I—why?" I asked belatedly. There was something about that look in Draco's eyes that made me want to shy away from asking, made me want to pretend nothing was wrong.

But I've known Draco for years—we used to meet at the Pureblood Ladies' Gardening Club parties—and Salazar, but when you're that bored, you'd talk to a _Hufflepuff_, you're so desperate.

For the rest, he really is adorable, with that silvery hair and the pout that means he wants something…He took me to the Yule Ball, and we'd been going pretty much steady since then.

Now, in sixth year, I could read his moods without having to think too hard. And I'd never seen him so worried.

"No reason," he said. But he wouldn't meet my eyes, and I knew he was lying.

Suddenly feeling fed up, I stood, clutching my peanut butter like a child hugging a teddy bear. "Don't you trust me?" I whined.

"Of course," he said, still in that fake voice, trying vainly to imitate his usual bluster. Then he looked at me.

The decision was a deliberate one, I was sure later. To spare me danger. Of course, at the time, I didn't see it that way.

"You know what, Pansy, you stupid slut? I don't trust you! And I don't need you, or your stupid peanut butter!" And he flung the knife at me.

I caught it, but my shirt and the floor were covered in drops of peanut butter. I stared at him for a moment, white as a sheet, and then fled.

Somehow, peanut butter never tasted the same to me again.


	17. I, the Sorting Hat

Author's Note: Also for the 2019 Challenge. Features Albus Severus Potter.

**I, the Sorting Hat…**

Gryffindor, dinosaur, Dumbledore, dunderbore…

Rhymes wafted lazily through my mind. I suspected "dunderbore" as a rhyme for "Gryffindor" was Salazar's influence, but the Godric part of my mind was far too fascinated with the simple play of light over the Headmistress's desk to care.

I thought about analyzing which members of the more recent Hogwarts classes would get married and procreate together, and what effect their various genetic combinations would have on personality and development. Really, it's surprising so few scholars of note make humanity their study. Fascinating creatures.

But I digress. I was just about to slip into a maudlin mood, my Helga side despairing of ever getting anything to _do_, when the door swung open.

Headmistress Beaumont was escorting, rather grimly, young Mr. Potter (the second one, I recalled, who vowed to leave the castle at once if I didn't place him in Gryffindor—determined, just like his father), and Miss Malfoy, whom I had sent to Gryffindor as well only a month previously, in tow.

Mr. Potter was scowling, to conceal, I recognized immediately, a strange mix of guilt, apprehension, jealousy, and blind, uncomprehending rage. Miss Malfoy's injuries were more physically apparent: she was sporting what would soon become a stunning black eye, and moved hesitantly, fingers gingerly touching the back of her head.

Now, you don't see such non-magical injuries often. Sure, when a couple of first-years attempt "dueling practice," perhaps, but young Mr. Potter was already in his third year of school—it seemed only yesterday that I had been Sorting his father—and should have known more spells than _that_.

"Sit," Headmistress Beaumont said—how else?—grimly.

Mr. Potter slumped immediately into a chair, glaring. Miss Malfoy was just perching carefully and gracefully on the edge of her seat when the door burst open again.

In rushed that rather awkward young man—well, perhaps not quite so young now; how time flies—Neville Longbottom, now the Herbology Master, Head of Gryffindor House, and Deputy Headmaster. He was rather unprepossessing, in light of these titles—particularly covered in what I guessed to be manure.

Thank Merlin I don't breathe.

"Headmistress," panted Mr. Longbottom, "I came as soon as I heard—I'm afraid—that is—Miss Potter—"

"Miss Potter?" the Headmistress inquired sharply.

And, lo and behold, Miss Potter, that red-haired sprite who won me over as soon as I saw reflected in her mind the years of low-level abuse she'd suffered from such a large and difficult family, squeezed past Mr. Longbottom without getting so much as a smudge of manure, or that vile-looking orange substance, on her robes.

"You!" Mr. Potter cried, with such hatred in his voice that Mr. Longbottom recoiled. Miss Potter stood her ground, but her face went pale.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Headmistress demanded—rather shrilly, in my humble opinion. I'm afraid the strain of having so many Weasley cousins at Hogwarts at once is telling on her.

"How. Dare. You," Miss Potter said quietly. "Stay away from my friends, Albus, or so help me Salazar—"

But young Mr. Potter wasn't listening; he grabbed Miss Malfoy's arm, yanking her to her feet, and began to shake her violently. "Changeling!" he snarled, "What have you done with my sister?"

Miss Potter ducked under his arm, inserting herself between her brother and Miss Malfoy. Deliberately, she punched him. As Mr. Potter staggered slightly and let go of Miss Malfoy's arms, Miss Potter said icily, "I'm standing right here."

Headmistress Beaumont and Mr. Longbottom had, by this point, recovered enough to intervene; Mr. Longbottom grabbed Mr. Potter somewhat inexpertly by the arm, and Headmistress Beaumont said angrily, "Never! Never in all my years of being Headmistress—" that's thirteen, ever since Headmistress McGonagall retired—"have I seen such a display of Muggle violence!" Of course, those of us who have made this office our home for considerably longer than she has have seen plenty of violence, Muggle and otherwise. Why, I remember when Mr. Potter, Savior of the Wizarding world, was only a little older than young Mr. Albus Potter, throwing priceless magical artifacts all over this office…I was lucky not to be caught in the crossfire.

"She—" Mr. Potter said, and lapsed into incoherence.

"You snuck up on me, you thrice-cursed _coward_—" Miss Malfoy said breathlessly. "You shame Gryffindor House, and your _noble_ name!"

"I? _I _shame—thief! You stole my sister, Malfoy scum!" Mr. Potter twisted out of Mr. Longbottom's grip, shoved Miss Malfoy backward against the Headmistress's desk, and grabbed me from behind my display case.

"Careful!" I shrieked, but I doubt he heard me—

The next thing I knew, Mr. Potter had pulled me over Miss Potter's eyes, and I could hear him screaming in the background—

"Fix it! Put her where she belongs! My sister is no Slytherin! Malfoy scum! Thieves! Monsters! _Give me Lily back!"_

I felt his anguish as from far away, and sensed Headmistress Beaumont and Mr. Longbottom doing their best to subdue him, while Miss Malfoy slumped to the floor, faint and injured—

But, as always, when I'm on someone's head, my mind was filled with Miss Potter—her thoughts, her feelings, her _self_. I felt her fear for Miss Malfoy, her hurt and confusion at Mr. Potter's betrayal, her utter lack of concern for the authority figures present—and her self-doubt.

"I hate him!" she raged. "How dare he hurt V to get to me? He can't possibly _believe _that changeling story! Fool, _sheep,_ going along with everyone else—what if—he's right?"

"You're no changeling," I—said would be the closest, but it's more as though my mind communicates directly with anyone whose head I rest upon. "But you know that."

"What if he _is_ right, and I don't belong in Slytherin? Should have been in Gryffindor, with all the other little do-gooders—I'm just kidding myself with this whole rebellion thing, I've got no right—"

"Do you really believe that?" I asked mildly. "Are you so unsure of yourself that your brother—or anyone—can deprive you of your destiny?"

I heard the echo of a rueful laugh in her thoughts. "Not very Gryffindor of me, huh?"

"You're the only one who can decide who you will become," I said, after a moment.

"So, strictly vague empowerment Divination nonsense?" she thought bitterly.

"Yes," I agreed, pleased she had understood so quickly. Very bright, that one. She made to take me off, and I added, quietly—but with no possibility that she wouldn't hear me—"But you should know, Miss Potter—I Sorted you into Slytherin. And I don't make mistakes."

She smiled, and replaced me, very gently, in my display case.

Only then did I become aware of what else had occurred. Headmistress Beaumont was standing over Mr. Potter, grimly covering him with her wand. Mr. Longbottom, looking unhappy, was applying some vile looking herb to Miss Malfoy's wrist. She was glaring at Mr. Potter, but looked up at Miss Potter as I watched. Miss Potter quirked her eyebrows upward, clearly asking if Miss Malfoy was all right. Miss Malfoy shrugged, then winced.

"Mr. Potter," said Headmistress Beaumont, "I will ask you once more to explain yourself in a calm and civilized manner. If you do not, I will be forced to firecall your parents and request authorization to use Veritaserum. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said sullenly. There was a small silence before he continued reluctantly, "I—my sister doesn't belong in Slytherin. She just doesn't, okay? And then the _Prophet_'s like, probably Lily and that Malfoy girl were exchanged at birth, on account of both of them being in the wrong houses, and the Malfoy girl having green eyes like Dad's, and Lily's eyes being sort of grayish, like Mr. Malfoy's. But I figure the Malfoy girl must've had some kind of plot, to take over Lily's mind and corrupt her, and steal her away from her family. I was _trying_ to make her give me Lily back."

"I'm not yours," Miss Potter said calmly. But her face was pale.

"Exchanging children is a tedious and difficult process," drawled Professor Snape's portrait. "I doubt either Mr. Potter or Mr. Malfoy would have possessed the initiative, much less the motivation."

Miss Malfoy rose from the floor, wincing in pain and holding her wrist at an odd angle. She walked to where Mr. Potter sat sullenly near the desk. "You," she said clearly, "are a coward and a disgrace. But you're Lily's brother, so I'll restrain _my _brother from killing you and my grandfather from bankrupting you before you even possess a fortune to lose. Don't come near me again." And she looked away, as though dismissing Mr. Potter as unworthy of account.

Miss Potter looked into her brother's eyes. "Stay away from my friends, Al," and then she was helping Miss Malfoy out, their destination the Hospital Wing, I sincerely trust.

I wondered if Miss Potter would ever tell her brother what he wanted to hear—and vice versa.

"Well," said Mr. Longbottom, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief already soaked in that strange orange substance. "I guess there's something to be said for being an only child."

Headmistress Beaumont sentenced Mr. Potter to a week of detentions, and wrote to his parents, adding the rider that his father, the Savior of the Wizarding World, would be ashamed of him for assaulting a defenseless first year. Mr. Potter's snort bore eloquent testimony to his belief that no Malfoy could be called defenseless. Mr. Longbottom, with a nervous glance at Professor Snape's portrait (who only raised one eyebrow), escorted Mr. Potter back to Gryffindor Tower.

As Headmistress Beaumont grimly brewed herself a headache remedy, I settled back in my display case, to analyze all I had witnessed.

One thing was certain: Mr. Potter, Miss Potter, and Miss Malfoy would keep me busy for many hours. There's nothing like a nice family drama. My boredom had vanished, and, if I were human, I would have grinned.


	18. Lesson the Only

**Lesson the Only**

Watch.

Watch Mother smile to reward the house-elf. "Thank you, Dippy," like the creature is the center of her world.

"Of course, Mistress, anything, Mistress," a blush, a bow. Her servants adored her.

"—wave of the future, I mean it, Mrs. Malfoy, this new agricultural spell—it's progress, so far, is—oh, I do hope I'm not boring you, ma'am."

"Not at all," Mother says, smiling her special smile. "I find it fascinating. Please, continue."

"—that's the trouble with young wizards and witches today. No respect for the old ways. These adolescent rebellions are downright _Muggle _in my opinion—begging your pardon, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Oh, I do so agree with you, sir." Warmth in her voice, promises of safety and understanding in her beautiful smile.

"He_ hit_ me!" I still couldn't believe it. Hogwarts was an adjustment for me. I'd spent years basking in the knowledge that I was the one thing my parents loved most in the world. It came as rather a shock to me that not everyone shared their opinion.

But Potter…it was all his fault. Furious, I began my long campaign to bring him down.

I poked and prodded at every imaginable wound, and when I got a reaction I twisted the knife. His mother, those loser friends of his, his susceptibility to Dementors, his fainting spells, his scar, his habit of drooling when he fell asleep in class…

Result? He hated me. And he nearly murdered me, although I never revealed it to another living soul because of my pride.

Mother never had much to do with him, until she saved his life.

Result? He loved her. As so many do.

Watch and learn, eh?

I made my peace with Potter—gradually, yes, but we got there in the end. And I practiced the secret look. Like you're the only person in the whole world who understands.

I was invited back to the Ministry—no longer on sufferance. I was welcomed everywhere. Only Weasel still hated me, and he was an unutterable fool: the few victories he achieved in his life were all thanks to Granger.

And now—"Mr. Malfoy, we would be honored if you would accept this small token of our thanks—"

"—Mr. Malfoy, I'm pleased to announce you are this year's recipient of the Most Charitable Wizard Award, for fifteen years running!"

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Chair of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, and winner of the Order of Merlin, First Class for his work on the Treaty of Civilized Magical Societies, after the _Final_ Final Battle of the Wizards' Great World War, Mr. Draco Malfoy!"

It's been many years since the fall of the Dark Lord. And now I know why he fell, why it was always inevitable. This is what I learned from my mother: how to make people love you.

Secure in the knowledge, not that "no one can stop me now," but that no one wants to.

Watch and learn.


	19. No Sane Way

**No Sane Way**

"Harry Potter," Dumbledore read out. Everyone in the hall stared at him, at the glowing Goblet of Fire, or at the Boy Who Lived.

Draco scowled into his empty glass. Potter. Of course.

Never mind that the Triwizard Tournament was supposed to involve _three_ contestants, hence the 'tri' at the beginning of the name… Never mind that Dumbledore was supposed to have drawn an Age Line impossible to pass for those younger than seventeen… Never mind how much Draco had been looking forward to a school-sponsored event, finally, that wasn't all about Potter…

Of course, as Draco made certain to make abundantly clear to everyone within earshot over the next several weeks, there was absolutely no way Potter would win. Probably wouldn't even manage the first task. Supposed to be dead dangerous. Any sane person would hesitate before volunteering to be practically murdered three times over one year.

If the rumors are true, Potter didn't volunteer—but that's nonsense. Everyone knows no Gryffindor would pass up a chance to prove their bravery (ie, stupidity) in front of the whole school. Potter must be _loving _this.

Still—there's no way he's winning. Absolutely no way.

Even if all the Professors, bar Snape and Sprout, are quite shockingly partisan for everyone's favorite hero. Whatever happened to Diggory, the Golden Boy?

Draco has never understood what makes Potter so special. Okay, so there's that thing with him defeating the Dark Lord as a tiny baby, but honestly, it could happen to anyone.

There's no way Potter is going to get this, too. Every prize or glory there is—no. There's absolutely no way. Not _again._

Not if there's any justice in the world, Draco thinks.

But his glass isn't even half-full.


End file.
